


The Heart of War

by LorienEUrbani



Category: Norse Religion & Lore, Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Happy Ending, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Romance, Slow Burn, but romance happens, descriptions of battle that are not overly graphic, really slow burn I kid you not, the stress is on Sif's characterisation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 04:28:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5483426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LorienEUrbani/pseuds/LorienEUrbani
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sif wants to become a valkyrie, but then, she realises she wants Loki, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Heart of War

**The Heart of War**

**.**

**.**

**.**

_Who can sail without the wind?_  
_Who can row without oars?_  
_Who can say farewell to a friend_  
_without shedding tears?_

 _I can sail without the wind,_  
_I can row without oars,_  
_but I can´t say farewell to a friend_  
_without shedding tears._

(Who Can Sail without the Wind, a Swedish folk song)

 

When the sword-maiden Sif announced that she was contemplating joining the ranks of the valkyries, her announcement was met with different reactions, some of which she resented.

It was generally considered a great honour for a young maiden to become a valkyrie and her father, one of the best warriors of Odin’s own guard, certainly deemed it as such and supported her decision. His wife, Sif’s mother, died cradling a sword to her chest. Sif had the heat of war flowing through her every vein and she wanted to be a warrior more than anything else she could imagine. She did not wish to be an ordinary shield-maiden, but a valkyrie, for valkyries were only dedicated to war, the dead and their liege, Odin.

The valkyries were so loyal to their duties that they came up with a rule for their fierce army of women: that a valkyrie must never fall in love, for if she did, she was cast aside by her sisters-in-arms. It was their way of stressing their complete dedication to war and no one could dispute it. A warrior had to be completely invulnerable and emotions were the safest way to chip at the hard armour and invite in mistakes. It was a rule the valkyries themselves had introduced and few had ever broken it. Those who had done so left the sacred army and retreated in shame to the far corners of Yggdrasil, never to return to Asgard again, all of their own volition.

To a valkyrie, honour was everything. Honour was the sword; honour was the battle cry in the dead of night; honour was blood; and honour was life.

The valkyries were a sacred group of Asgardians, respected by all, even inspiring Asgardian and some enlightened Midgardian skalds to write great sagas about them. The rule, however, remained. The valkyries, as any other Asgardian, loved tradition and Odin’s shield-maidens only acknowledged their duties to war and the dead. They had no patience for or interests in anything else.

It had always been Sif’s calling to be a warrior, equal to, or even better than, any man. She wanted to serve Thor, her general and friend; her very ideal. Yet she felt as if she had always been trailing behind him and his warriors, not truly belonging. She wanted to fight for Thor, but she was not happy among his men, for she still felt judged in their company. It did not matter to them that she was a fierce soldier; in their minds, there was only one particular breed of woman who could fight as well as a man, or even better. That woman was a valkyrie, the sacred warrior.

Sif realised she wanted to be a warrior more than she had wanted anything else in her life. She would have to make a great sacrifice in leaving behind Thor, her closest friend; leaving behind the possibility of fighting by his side; with him; for him; for Asgard. Yet it seemed it was not to be. Thor wished for the same, but when his men didn’t, what hope was there for Sif?

The hope dwelled with the valkyries in Valhalla, at the very heart of Asgard.

When Sif was still doubtful about whether she wanted to join Odin’s shield-maidens or not, she asked her father for advice, even before she did Thor, and her father told her the tale she had almost forgotten, a tale of the valkyries she had to hear in order to sleep as a child; a tale that first inspired Sif to follow the path of a warrior, although she had forgotten her first reasons over the centuries.

“The battle raged like a devastating storm,” her father began and Sif knew her answer.

**.**

**.**

**.**

_Let us now wind the web of war_  
_And then follow the king to battle._

(Song of Darraðar)

 

_The battle raged like a devastating storm, soaking the soil with the blood of the injured and fallen men, rendering it barren for generations to come, for no blade of wheat or rye could ever hope to spring from a field that had drunk in so much death. The warriors clashed their heavy swords, the steel determining who would be the next to sit on the throne after the last king died without a legitimate heir. He had sown his wild oats, leaving behind a brood of bastard children, but his wife never bore him a son, not even a daughter to marry off and form an alliance._

_The throne was empty and much coveted, and so blood was shed for its sake, many a good warrior falling to ensure that his liege might claim it._

_Death was in the air and in the background, the valkyries waited on their white horses. The warrior angels of death soared above the battle fields of the Nine Realms, choosing by the will of the Nornir who would die and who live, but on that day in Midgard, they did not mete out fate. They observed, choosing warriors who showed extraordinary skill and courage, deciding which of the fallen humans were worthy of joining Odin’s ghostly army in Valhalla. The rest of the dead they would leave to Freyja, so that the goddess might keep them in the ever-green fragrant meadows of Fólkvangr._

_Unseen by the living due to the magic that veiled them, and eagerly expected by the souls of the dead, the valkyries waited, unmoving, at the edge of the battle. When the blood-shed was over, they flew on their winged beasts, extending their snow-white hands towards the spirits detaching themselves from the mortal bodies. The chosen heroes beamed with the pride of going to Valhalla and serving Odin in the afterlife until the end of Ragnarök that had been foretold for the future. The rest of the dead were embraced by the devastatingly beautiful Freyja, whom they had already worshipped as living men._

_Freyja called to Heimdall to open the Bifröst, and she and the valkyries were taken by the rainbow light, the spirits swallowed together with them. As the Bifröst took them, their paths were separated. The valkyries took the fallen heroes to Asgard, to the golden Valhalla, where they joined the ever-growing ghostly army of Odin._

_Now, the valkyries, Odin’s shield-maidens and the fiercest of Asgardian women, could put war aside for a while. They were needed when Odin gave orders for the ghostly army to be expanded, or in the toughest of battles in the Nine Realms when, by Odin’s request, they decided the outcome of a battle that would simply not come to its end naturally; a battle in which neither side was losing. Then, they would end such a battle exactly as the Nornir, the seers of destiny, had foreseen. In those battles, the valkyries would show their incredible fierceness, destroying the enemy from the sky, their elegant forms perched on the sinewy backs of the flying horses, bathing their swords in blood._  
_But the most important and primary duty of the valkyries was to the dead. They took care of the ghostly army, collecting and then feeding it. Every morning, they brought to the Einherjar mead from the udder of the goat Heiðrún and as night fell, they fought the nightly-resurrecting beast Sæhrímnir, in unison with the chosen Æsir, so that the Einherjar might partake in its strong blood._

**.**

  
**.**

  
**.**

  
_Ice is very cold and immeasurably slippery;_  
_it glistens as clear as glass and most like to gems;_  
_it is a floor wrought by the frost, fair to look upon._

_(The Anglo-Saxon Rune Poem)_

 

  
Sif was struggling, for even as she knew she had made her choice, it was hard to adhere to it in Thor’s overwhelming presence.

  
She was observing the mighty warrior of thunder from the edge of the training grounds. Her eyes caught his every movement; every single detail of his fighting ways; every single turn of his feet and hands as he hacked and sliced at his opponents with the rebated sword that had its point and edges blunted. Sif gnawed at her lip, marvelling at his strength, as well as pondering on all the possible ways of how she could tell him, her leader and her closest friend, of her intention to leave him.

  
_I must be mad_ , she thought and not for the first time, as Thor felled his opponent in the blink of an eye and a growl of victory slid from his throat. For good measure, he used the blunted sword to strike at the pell and turn the wooden trunk, planted firmly in the ground, into large splinters, a show of his immense strength. He grinned and winked at her, as he always would, finding her in the crowd and sending his attention to her. Usually, Sif rolled her eyes at him and called him a bragger.

  
Now, Sif wavered and bit her lower lip harder and with such intensity that she broke the skin of it and drew blood from it with her tongue. The copper taste was akin to the taste of a freshly polished blade, ready for battle, and Sif composed herself.

  
The calling of the valkyrie was strong inside her bones and it demanded to be heard.

  
She had served under Thor for half a millennia; it was time to serve Asgard as a valkyrie. She had never been one to lie and she would admit, openly if challenged, that she sought glory and praise, for she had been born a warrior, shaped and honed into a shield-maiden, and her every fibre pined for grand battles across the distant branches of Yggdrasil.

  
Sif heard Thor laugh his merry, boisterous laugh and he beckoned her with a finger to join him in practice. She rarely fought Thor in the training grounds, for she preferred to fight by his side, not against him, but when given an opportunity to make her attempt at wiping the arrogant, self-pleased smirks off his face, she gladly took it. Sif loved to teach her fellow warriors her very own lessons in humility and they had learned by now that the Lady Sif was a warrior to be feared.

  
This time, however, Sif declined Thor’s invitation, preferring to observe the practice from afar, for if their swords kissed in mock battle, she might be inclined to stay with him and serve him until the end of Time.

  
She knew of the whispers behind her back. They told of her feelings for Thor, of her undying loyalty that stemmed from a passionate infatuation, but they were wrong. It was not infatuation; it was love, forged from the deepest forms of friendship and loyalty. He was her friend, her brother, her leader and her rising star, and they would never understand her devotion to him, but it was enough that she did. She believed in him, with every fibre of her body, and it would be hard to abandon her current position that allowed her to spend every day in his company.

  
How much did she wish to become a valkyrie?

  
She turned away from the sight of Thor to avoid another onslaught of weakness, only to crush into a tall, thin mass of black and green leather.

  
For a second, she trembled. Then, she narrowed her gaze, her lips setting into a thin, frustrated line.

  
_Loki._

  
“How do you always manage to sneak up on me?” she asked in annoyance.

  
It was an issue that had been troubling her for centuries, a skill in which she still found herself severely lacking. She could never manage to surprise Loki, but he always managed to surprise and bewilder her, forming in front of her out of thin air, it seemed, even when he did not resort to his powerful seiðr to do so. He tended to slip into her awareness like a silent snake and his habit angered her to no end.

  
Sif avoided snakes as a rule, but she could never avoid Loki.

  
“Would you not wish to know?” came his smooth, taunting reply, slipping off his tongue like silver. Silver-tongue he was called, one of the many monikers he had adopted over the centuries, and Silver-tongue he was.

  
Sif heaved a heavy sigh and, clutching with force the hilt of the blade resting against her hip, she walked past Loki, not in a mood to tolerate him, let alone amuse him.  
There were days when she truly enjoyed Loki’s company, and there were days when she recoiled from it completely. Today was one of those days when she did not wish to see him. Sometimes she wondered why she found it so easy to dislike him and her answer was ever that she did not trust him enough to allow him any closer. She was afraid to trust him. He was too silent, too secretive, too skilled in the art of magic and too ready to always offer an argument to everything she said. He observed too well and he knew too much.

  
Loki knew things that Sif did not wish him to know. There were secrets that belonged only to her and he was a part of them. For that, there were times when she felt at his mercy, and Sif’s independence chafed against such an insult.

  
Knowledge, she had learned, could be as dangerous a weapon as a sword when wielded by someone worthy of the instrument.

  
“I’ve exchanged a few words with your father,” he called after her, his voice nonchalant.

  
Sif stopped her steps abruptly and turned on the heels of her black leather boots. Her hold around the dagger’s hilt tightened, turning her knuckles white. His back was to her, his hands leaning against the sturdy wooden railing encircling the vast training grounds. She hated how careless he appeared, so condescendingly disinterested, and she had learned in her existence that such behaviour was a prelude to a well-shaped and jaggedly snide remark.

  
“I do not see why you should not,” she said, masking the wariness that was burning under her skin. “You see him every day.”

“I have noticed the tension in you, Sif,” he continued in the same manner, “and I can only assume that you have not told his highness yet.”

Sif took a step forward, chafing against the mocking way he spoke his brother’s title. He turned around lithely and, taking in her dark expression, chuckled lightly.

  
“I mean no disrespect to my brother, naturally. I only meant to tease you, dear lady. Or should I say, my lady valkyrie?”

  
He flashed her a grin and it rubbed Sif quite the wrong way entirely. Sif closed her eyes briefly and took a deep breath to calm herself. “I am not in a teasing mood, my prince,” she said, gritting the words through her teeth like stones that she could not hope to crush.

  
She turned again, determined not to listen to anything else that Loki might have to say, but he made her stop again, the wretched, frustrating man, and for an entirely different reason this time.

  
“He will not understand.”

 

  
Now, Loki’s voice was devoid of any hints of mockery and his face was serious.

  
“He will not let you go so easily. My brother is a great man, but he is also selfish and he does not part easily with his treasures.”

  
Sif stared at Loki, her mouth agape, her hand letting go of the dagger’s hilt and falling loose down her thigh. She was both devastated and elated, for Loki’s words came as a wound, as much as praise. She was battling herself, trying to find the right words to form a good response, but she had none at her disposal and she looked forlornly at Loki, resenting herself for it. She was loath to show her weakness to the Trickster, but she felt crushed under the weight of his damning words.

  
“Unless you show him what you are truly made of,” Loki spoke, a thin smile spreading across his lips, green mischief glinting in his eyes. “He will not be able to deny you your wish then.”

  
Sif, immediately suspicious and alert, crossed her arms across her chest and lifted her chin proudly in open defiance.

  
“I have two questions for you, Loki Odinson,” she replied.

  
“I know,” he said, a pleased smirk gracing his features. “Would you like me to tell you the answers?”

  
She huffed in annoyance. “Do not presume that you can so easily toy with me with impunity.”

  
“Oof, so fierce,” he remarked, then chuckled again. “Yes, yes, I understand. You are not in the mood to entertain today.”

  
“Precisely.” The word clattered from her mouth, heavy and sharp.

  
He offered her a smirk. “You must understand, Sif, that I am by no means offering my assistance to you. Oh no. You know me well enough to comprehend that I am not of the selfless sort. However, I have decided to appear helpful to you because your shocked face never ceases to amuse me and I do so love to be amused.” He tilted his head a little. “This answers your first question.”

  
Sif’s very teeth were set on edge, but she held herself back, focusing on her even breathing. “And why should I be shocked this time, Loki?”

  
“The All-Father has invited a number of the Æsir to join the valkyries in the slaying of Sæhrímnir this night,” Loki spoke calmly, “and I was allowed to choose a companion. You are my choice, Sif. Will you fight the beast by my side and show your mettle to the valkyries? And to my brother, naturally.”

  
Sif gasped loudly and stared. It was one of the greatest honours in the life of an Asgardian to be invited to Valhalla to join the valkyries in their nightly quest of killing the nightly-resurrecting beast. It was Odin who chose the fortunate participants and it was his wont to select from the group of the twenty-four Æsir who were on the council and gathered in the temples of Gladsheim and Vingólf. It was his duty of a gracious lord and king to do so. His sons were included in the honour and they were allowed to invite their own companions to Valhalla, if they so chose.

  
Thor had never asked Sif to come to Valhalla, the centre of her greatest, burning desire.

  
_My brother is a great man, but he is also selfish and he does not part easily from his treasures_ , Loki had said and suddenly, Sif understood.

  
Thor had known all that time that Sif stood out as a shield-maiden and that it had always been her calling to become a valkyrie. Thor had known and greedily, he had been stirring her away from her calling, to keep her with him.

  
Sif knew she ought to feel enraged and betrayed. Instead, she was touched and her own feelings made her feel like an utter fool.  
In addition, she felt puzzled.

  
It was Loki who was the first one to invite her to Valhalla.

  
It was not at all how she had imagined the coveted invitation to present itself at last.

 

Why was it always he who unveiled the mysteries for her and gave her first-time experiences?

 

_Why?_

  
Sif looked at Loki, at his smiling face, searching for traces and residues of ulterior motives. She knew them to be ever present, but she was not well skilled in detecting them. She lacked his finesse, which he possessed in abundance. She would truly never be able to fully trust him and she almost regretted the sentiment. Yet Sif was a warrior and she was practical. An opportunity had been given to her and she would be the greatest dunderhead in the Realms if she refused it for the sake of her stubborn pride.

  
“You would invite me to Valhalla?” she asked, the wariness finally wearing off, excitement supplanting it with slow insistence.

  
If this was only a jest, she would skin Loki with her bare hands and keep the skin as a rug in her bedchamber.

  
“No, I did invite you to Valhalla. Now give me an answer,” was Loki’s reply.

  
He approached her, sauntering towards her in his usual languid manner, and she felt the mischievous glint of his garnet eyes burn her with attention. Sif stood her ground and offered him her hand, unwavering.

  
“I thank you,” she spoke firmly, her heart leaping with joy at the prospect of at long last visiting the sacred Valhalla.

  
Loki took her hand, his lips curving into a perfect smile that barely hid his pearlescent teeth. Sif’s spine grew taut as he squeezed her fingers, then parted with them with a gentle, sliding caress. She rarely touched him, unless they were fighting side by side on a battlefield, and the uncommon way of the touch made her remember the many uncommon things she had shared with him. Their friendship, if thusly it could be called, surely had been strange, riddled with mistrust and taunts from both parties, and it had an evolution that could not be easily explained, yet now, at this very moment, Sif knew that she liked Loki again.

  
It was another first experience he would give her and briefly, she remembered the other ones.

  
She remembered her first trip to Midgard, where she was taken by Loki and saw the Midgardian, silver full moon. She joined the wolves as they howled at their mistress in the sky, laughing afterwards. The Northern Lights had been a special treat and she spent the entire night watching them dance in the dark sky.

  
She remembered the first time she won a sparring victory and it was especially entertaining to remember Loki’s shocked face as he found himself on his back, looking up at her. On that day, she claimed his sword Laevateinn and she had not returned it since. It was one of her most prized possessions.

  
She remembered the first time she rode a unicorn in Álfheim, for she did not want that wondrouds, beautiful animal to be slain for the sake of its powerful horn, and when she asked for it to be spared, Loki calmed the beast with whispers of magic, despite Thor's protests, bringing it to her, so that she could mount it and keep it as her own for a day.

Finally, Sif remembered the first time she threatened a man with death, for when Loki and she exchanged her very first, wanton kiss after a banquet in honour of a particularly important conquest, she recoiled from him in horror, startled by her own passion, which she had initiated, and she pressed her dagger against his pale throat, promising him murder if he ever betrayed their secret. Weeks had to pass before she decided to look at him again, and then a few more weeks before she decided it was time to speak to him again.

  
Not long after that, he kissed her and she let him. In her shame, flaring inside her only after long moments of allowing him to explore her mouth and trace the patches of her bare skin exposed to him with his fingers, she called him Ergi, the worst insult that could be said to a man. Not only did she insult him as a man; she insulted his entire being, calling him an Ergi because he was a sorcerer, cursing his very essence. For the first time, she confessed how wrong she had been. She apologised and sought his forgiveness, but he avoided her for three full moons and tormented her with nasty public magic tricks for another three, shaming her on many an occasion. It took Thor's thunderous rage to reconcile them after Loki cut all of her hair in her sleep, then coloured it black, the magic irreversible.

  
There had been no kisses exchanged between them since and Sif had vowed that there never would be again. She was a conqueror, not a conquest.

  
Sif shuddered at the last memory and forced it aside with trained determination.

  
She tossed aside the image of the trouble-seeking, silver-tongued Trickster. Now, he was the Loki who used his magic to entertain her, the Loki who shared his knowledge of the realms with her, the Loki who always remembered Sif when Thor was ready to go on a quest with his younger brother to the forbidden corners of Yggdrasil to seek glory, or rather vainglory, as Loki teased him, for where was the glory in returning with a unicorn’s healing breath in a bottle, or the gold horns of the aurochs beasts dwelling on the planes of Álfheim, so that their mother might adorn herself with a new set of jewelry? But Sif loved those quests, loved being a member of the princes' company, and she found a plethora of fun in slaying the giant Bilgesnipes.

  
Loki always remembered.

  
Sadly, he also never seemed to forget and Sif could always see it in his eyes, the sparks of shame-inspiring reminders. Well, he had more things to be ashamed of than her, if tales of his amorous adventures could be believed. There had not been many, but there had been women; there had been passionate affairs; and Loki was not one to hide them. All of them had been wielders of seiðr from other realms, as if Loki wanted to procclaim to Asgard that none of its own women were good enough for him. Or perhaps, Loki knew better. Sif had not been the first to call him an Ergi, so she should not resent him for turning his back to potential Asgardian lovers. But why should she care? She did not care. She had never cared. He had never been hers, nor she his. It was idiotic of her to even ponder on it.

 

Disappointed in herself, Sif focused on the memory of slaying a Bilgesnipe for the first time.

  
As if reading her mind, Loki said, “After slaying the particularly impressive Bilgesnipe in Svartálfaheimr, you should feel at ease while pouncing on poor Sæhrímnir. The beast goes through its sacrificial death every night.”

  
Sif grinned. “Yet I have no sympathy for it, and I shall show it no mercy.”

  
“Wonderful,” replied Loki, offered her an insolent wink and traced from her sight in a flash of green light.

  
“Ugh!” Sif growled angrily and stormed away from the training grounds.

  
Whenever Loki left her presence by use of magic, Sif’s blood boiled. But this time, she forgave him easily.

  
He had given her a gift and Sif found that a good gift could sway even her fierce warrior’s spirit.

  
**.**

  
**.**

  
**.**

 _Warriors fight fearless and strong!_  
_Before the blade his skull bites._  
_Little is lost for men who fight well._  
_To fight again another day._

  
_(The Lay of Guthorm's Army at Ethandun)_

 

  
Reaching Valhalla, which stood atop a majestic hill, home to ancient trees and winds that whispered words of old, Sif dismounted her horse, her lips slightly parted, her eyes widening at the beauty she had only observed from afar in previous days.

  
She heard Loki dismount his own horse, but she barely paid attention to her companion. She was too absorbed with the whole of Valhalla, the exterior of the enormous hall and its vibrant surroundings.

  
Sif’s horse whinnied and she was forced to give it her attention. She saw Loki tethering his dark beast beneath the tree she immediately recognised as Læraðr, the tree well loved by Odin and which his ancestors had planted eons ago. Its never-ending leaves were said to have a sweet taste that chased away any sorrow in one's mind. She, too, tethered her horse next to Loki's, gently caressing the smooth, silver bark of the immortal tree after she had done so.

  
Sif's head snapped into Loki's direction as he let out of a melodious whistle.

  
“Why are you whistling?” she asked, her voice incredulous and amused, for Loki was not one for such displays.

“To summon Eikþyrnir,” he replied and as soon as he did, the tamed stag, whose coat glistened like gold, thundered from the forest to the right of the great sacred hall, shaking the ground beneath its hoofs, stopping by Loki’s side and sniffing his hands. The majestic animal had to bow his head low to reach Loki’s hands, for he was a tall and strong stag, three heads taller than the Trickster himself. Sif stared at the stag in awe, observing his height and his precious coat that appeared to be incredibly soft, despite it looking like leaves of gold.

Loki patted the animal’s horns, unusually shaped for a stag. They were long and straight, only curving at the ends towards the stag’s back.

“How beautiful he is,” she whispered.

Sif saw Loki charm up a big ball of hard honey from his palm and the stag greedily ate it, licking the palm clean.

“You love this animal,” Sif said, stunned by the image of Loki’s serene and happy face as he petted the animal and gave him his favourite treat. The stag made a grunting sound at the back of his throat, obviously pleased by the treat and the company.

Loki rolled his eyes at her. “Everyone appreciates Eikþyrnir, for he is the keeper of Valhalla. He is tamed, but his hooves would do considerable damage to any enemy of Asgard and with one awesome bawl, he would immediately summon the warriors to defend Valhalla. His voice reaches far, not to mention that, should you stand in his vicinity in the moment he let out his scream, your ears would begin to bleed and then, you’d go deaf.”

Sif found herself smiling at Loki’s defensive mood. He was trying hard to appear nonchalant, yet he praised the stag with affection. Suddenly, he snapped his fingers, which made the stag retreat back into the forest, the hooves pounding against the grass loudly.

“You did not have to call him away because I discovered that you are fond of him,” Sif spoke a bit resentfully. “I wanted to caress his beautiful coat.”

“Do not presume anything and let us go inside, dear Sif,” he spoke with his silver voice, his most used mask.

Sif was already fully attired for battle, but Loki was still missing his helmet, which he conjured now, at the threshold of Valhalla. Sif looked at the perfectly polished horns as he put it on his head and suddenly, after so many centuries she had known him, she finally understood the design.

“Eikþyrnir’s horns!” she exclaimed, grinning. “Loki Odinson, your heart has been conquered by an immortal stag.”

She knew that Thor had chosen the feathers in his helmet’s design in honour of Hræsvelgr, the eagle sitting at the top of the branches of Yggdrasil that stirred the air into strong gales with only a beat of its mighty wings. The bird could easily create thunder with its plumage. Thor found inspiration in the majestic bird and Loki, it seemed, found his in the stag that was the keeper of Valhalla. She marvelled at Loki's choice, approving it, and liking it.

“Come, we are awaited inside the Hall of the Slain,” Loki said, ignoring her accurate guess completely.

Sif wondered whether he was ashamed that she had learned such an intimate thing about him. She felt empowered by the knowledge, for now he was not the only one to keep the secrets of others. Now, Sif knew one of Loki’s secrets, a secret with which even Thor himself was not acquainted.

Smiling to herself, she followed Loki into the mighty hall of Valhalla and was immediately stunned into silence, forgetting all of the things she had ever witnessed in her existence, for now, at long last, she was standing inside the high, arched walls of Valhalla, an honoured guest surrounded by a small host of valkyries chosen for the night, led by the fierce Brynhildr herself. She barely saw Thor and his questioning glance. She barely heard Loki introducing her to Brynhildr. Sif forced herself to utter a coherent reply, trying very hard to impress when she herself was so impressed by everything.

She shook hands with Brynhildr, the leader of the valkyries, glad that Loki was standing by her side, leading her through this night, for there was so much to drink in, so much to enjoy, and she did not wish to hold back her joy, which in the company of the princes, whom she had known all her life and saw every day, she could easily express.

There were also Njörðr, the father of Freyja; the silent Víðarr, who was known to be the second strongest Asgardian; and the wise Bragi, as skilled with a sword as he was with a harp. Sif acknowledged the mighty presence of the Æsir with a low bow and they responded with less deep, yet still respectful bows in return. Sif felt accepted and proud, and she was ready to spill the blood of the beast awaiting its slaughter deeper inside Valhalla.

After the formal introduction, which, to Sif’s great happiness, passed smoothly and with success, the Æsir and the shield-maiden were asked to follow the valkyries into the Hall of Death, where the beast of the night was approaching the hour when it awoke into life again, only to be slain soon after, for there had not been a night when the valkyries were not able to succeed in their nightly quest.

Sif noticed that Thor and Loki were silently conversing, no doubt about her presence in the hall, yet swiftly, Loki sent his brother into a shocked silence and Sif’s heart fell, for she knew that Loki had just told Thor the truth about her intentions of making Valhalla her new home. Tonight’s night was a test and if she passed it, the valkyries would accept her as her own and soon, she would be lost to Asgard, for the valkyries only showed themselves in the Realm Eternal once a year, on the day of the Dísablót, when they came from the hallowed halls of Valhalla to speak of and celebrate their deeds, as well as, on rare occasions, in search of new shield-maidens to join their ranks.

Sif was seething, for it was not Loki's right or duty to acquaint Thor with her desire. It should have been Sif to tell him, to ask him for his permission to leave his side, to soften the blow of the annoucement with words of friendship and love. As Thor looked at her, hurt flickering in his amazingly blue eyes, Sif flinched and looked away, shouting profanities at Loki in her head, promising him revenge as soon as the battle was done. For now, she was determined that nothing would spoil this night of glory. It was her great opportunity, her moment to show her prowess, skill and strength to the valkyries, and she would not let is slip through her fingers like sand.

Sif focused on the ceiling that was thatched with golden shields, on the rafters that were spears of the fallen heroes, on the wooden benches lining the white and gray walls and littered with breast plates. This was the temple of war and Sif felt a deep sense of belonging. She was in her element, for she was born of war and she had war in her blood. They called Thor the God of Thunder; they called Loki the God of Mischief; and by the strength of the Einherjar, they would know her as the Goddess of War.

“Goddess of War,” Sif whispered to herself, tasting the words with a delighted curve of her lips.

She heard a chuckle behind her and was not surprised to find that it was Loki standing behind her back, having crept to her as silently as a shadow.

“Yes, you are,” he spoke into her ear, his lips touching the shell of it ever so softly and briefly, his hand patting the small of her back.

Sif blushed and looked at him furiously, but Loki only chuckled once more. “Are you ready, Sif?”

“I’m always ready for battle.” Sif smirked. “Don’t worry, I’ll look after you, my prince.”

Loki’s eyes flickered with amusement and Sif smiled at him, then averted her gaze quickly, worried by the surge of playfulness tickling her stomach. Loki was a bad influence.

Two of the valkyries opened the gates of the Hall of Death, the hinges groaning as if in warning of what was to follow, and Sif widened her stance, her blood humming with battle lust at the prospect of a bloody battle. The rest of the valkyries had brought their winged horses to the edge of the hall, one animal for each participant.

Sif mounted the horse proffered to her, the animal accepting the stranger’s weight immediately. The valkyries’ horses were well-trained beasts, afraid of nothing. Sif patted the mane of the black animal beneath her and looked to her left to Loki, her companion in this battle, perched on a snow-white horse. She was trying to think of a clever jibe, but her attempt was interrupted by Loki.

“Please, brother,” he said with an almost bored voice, looking over her head, “only use Mjölnir after all of us have had some fun with the beast, unlike the last time. Can you do that?”

Sif looked to Thor on her right just as the Thunderer laughed, seated on a beautiful bay charger. “I can try, brother.”

Then, Sif’s eyes met Thor’s, and she fought the urge to bite her lip. She would not feel intimidated by Thor. She had every right to be here and fight for her desire. She would not apologise. Her doubts and anguish from before disappeared when the gates of the Hall of Death had opened and her purpose was clearer to her than it had ever been.

“Thor,” she greeted him and lifted her chin proudly.

“Fight well,” he replied, smiling at her gently, and Sif knew that all would be well between them.

Loki had called Thor selfish, and it was the truth, but the Thunderer was not nearly as selfish as his younger brother had proclaimed him to be and Sif saw a silent benediction, Thor’s unspoken approval, in that smile.

“Thank you,” she said. “I always do.”

A sudden gust of hot wind hit them in their chests, followed by a guttural brontide of growling. Sæhrímnir had awoken.

Thor readied his sword and axe, heeding his brother’s plea and leaving the hammer to hang from his belt for the time being. His lips curved in early battle pleasure, which Sif knew so well. Loki remained composed, briefly touching the blades strapped to his arms, reinforcing their sharpness with a spell. He did the same to the axe attached to his belt. Sif clutched at her glaive, her favourite weapon to wield. She saw it gleam green for a moment, gasping, then realised that Loki had strengthened her weapon as well.

She looked at him in curiosity, but he didn’t look back at her or said a word.

And so, they spurred their horses into action and flew into the Hall of Death, eager to spill blood.

**.**

**.**

**.**

 

 _Sixteen wounds have I, slit is my byrnie,_  
_all is dark before my eyes, I cannot see to tread._

(Hjalmarr´s Death-Song)

 

Sæhrímnir was a monumental blob of hard flesh and thick, wrinkled skin that oozed with malodorous, brown-tinted slime. It growled through the four rows of dagger-sharp, long teeth, its red eyes filled with a mad, brutal urge to tear through anything and anyone in its path. Sharp, poisonous spikes protruded from its curved spine and the two long horns crowning its head scraped the ceiling every time the beast moved, creating a terrible, grating noise that tested Sif’s patience.

Despite its foul appearance, Sæhrímnir’s blood was sacred, meant as the daily evening meal for the noble masses of the Einherjar awaiting the Twilight of the Universe.

After hours of intense blood-shed, the beast was covered in numerous rows of deep gashes, sporting a high number of deep wounds, mangled flesh hanging from its skin in several places. All of its poisonous spikes had been cut off by tonight’s participants, and after playing with the nightmarish creature for the sake of sating their battle-lust, it was time to conclude the battle and bring death upon it. The hour of the Einherjar’s evening meal was fast approaching.

The valkyries, true to the strategy they had discussed before the battle, gathered behind the beast’s head, awaiting their chance to strike as one and carve through the veins in Sæhrímnir neck. They had gilded bowls attached to their belts, for it was tradition to capture the first streams of blood with those ancient vessels, but the majority of the blood would disappear through the holes in the ground and flow down the drains into the pools in the dining hall. There, the valkyries would prepare a feast for the Einherjar and not a drop of the beast’s blood would remain.

Sif saw Loki wave at her, pointing to the valkyries, and she made to follow Loki and Thor as they flanked the shield-maidens, axes at the ready. The remaining Æsir had a different plan.

“Let us cut off its horns first,” Njörðr said to his companions. “They are said to be most valuable when taken from the beast while it’s still alive. I have no desire to give the beast a deathblow. I want to leave with a trophy to put on the wall in my dining hall.”

Sif knew it was not wise to approach the beast from the side or from the front in this crucial moment; the creature was agitated and doubly vicious in its pain. She tried to say as much, but feared to speak her mind in the presence of the famed Æsir and the Vanir king. She decided to join Thor and Loki instead, kicking her horse gently in the flanks to make her intention clear, but then, she saw it clearly, her experience telling her everything: the beast would snap its head to the right, the direction from which Njörðr meant to approach it, thinking that it was safe to do so. But the tension in the beast’s neck alluded to the true direction towards which its giant head with the deadly teeth would turn.

Knowing that a shout of warning would not be enough to save the Vanir lord, Sif forced her winged horse in his direction, hoping she would get the beast between the eyes before it made a meal of the careless Vanir for itself. Spurring her horse with vicious determination, Sif barely overtook Njörðr – and then, Sæhrímnir struck. To Sif’s horror, it did not merely turn its head; it lowered it, pointing the spear-sharp points of its horns towards Sif and her horse.

Sif had the presence of mind to point her glaive between its eyes, but she could not steer her horse between the horns fast enough. The horse flew away on its own, for Sæhrímnir’s horn impaled Sif’s shoulder, unsaddling her, and the speared tip broke, embedding itself in her flesh. Sif saw white and she screamed, but not for long, the shock of the burning wound taking away her voice. She watched, on the verge of losing her consciousness, as the beast drifted away so swiftly and she knew she was falling down, soon to land on the hard ground, and she understood that this time, she might not survive.

Sif had been injured before and she had courted death several times, but this was different. She had no control over her body and the air felt cold against her skin. She knew she was in a lot of trouble and any time now, any time, her destiny would be decided. She would hit the ground now, any time now, and she didn’t want to die, she didn’t want –

Something that felt like an arm wrapped itself around her waist and she was pulled towards a warm mass that her blurred vision did not allow her to fully see. The arm pressed her against the warm, solid body to which it belonged, someone’s chest, Sif realised, and she whimpered in pain, her irritated shoulder protesting unabashedly.

“I’ve got you,” the mass spoke softly, “hold on. Don’t you dare close your eyes now, Sif. Do you hear me?”

She heard the dying gurgling of the beast in the background and she was reminded once more that she did not want to die. She kept her eyes open, although the effort was exhausting. She managed a faint smile, happy that her landing was softer and less deadly than she had anticipated it to be.

“Loki,” she breathed and coughed, then moaned, cursing the new surge of pain that shook her entire body, no longer concentrated in her shoulder alone.

“The very same,” Loki spoke above her and they both jolted as he landed his horse in the farthest corner of the Hall of Death.

He gently slipped his right hand under her knees and pressed his right one between her shoulder blades, cradling her like a helpless babe and gently placing her on the ground.

“You foolish, obstinate creature,” he spoke, trying to smile comfortingly, but his voice betrayed his fear and anger. “You should have let that idiot fend for himself.”

Sif coughed. “That...would not have been...honourable. The code –”

“Yes, yes, the glorified warriors’ code, and look where it’s lead you,” he replied, the tone of his voice snappish. “Are you satisfied now? I really hope you’re pleased with yourself, Sif.”

Sif wasn’t satisfied at all, but she appreciated the worry that made Loki’s body tremble. It was inappropriate to enjoy this now, in her dire situation, but she liked seeing Loki without one of his masks, his eyes expressive, not hiding anything.

“Now, I am not a healer, but I think I know just enough healing magic to stop the loss of blood before we get you to the true healers.”

“Hmm, your confidence in your...healing abilities...is comforting,” Sif murmured and closed her tired eyes for only a moment.

“Do not close your eyes!” Loki shouted in her face and she wanted to punch it for his rudeness, but she knew he only meant well.

“Sif!” Thor exclaimed, suddenly appearing above her.

“Thor,” Loki spoke before she could reply, “pull out the tip. I’ll hold her. Quickly. We can chat later.”

Sweet Norns, but Loki’s voice was vicious! Did he truly worry so much? Sif was confused, even more so when her thoughts began to form the idea that –

“ _Ymir’s teeth_ , **why**!” she screamed, her upper body arching under the onslaught of pain as Thor pulled out the remnant of the beast’s horn from her shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Sif, but it was necessary,” Thor explained, his voice thick with apprehension.

She groaned as Loki began to lace the threads of the worst bits of her torn flesh back together with his seiðr. Cursed Ymir’s balls, it was as if a thousand needles were poking through her skin at once, each one thrusting deeper than the last. She had known true pain, but this – this went beyond her endurance.

“I’m sorry, I-I don’t know the proper healing spells, I _don’t know_...”

Loki sounded frustrated and despite her suffering, Sif found that she wanted to comfort him. He was attempting to save her life. How could she not appreciate that? She moved her untouched shoulder to lift her arm and her hand landed on his cheek. The effort made her shiver and stirred a feeling of sickness in her stomach, but the result was worth it. Loki looked at her, wide-eyed and forlorn, and it was obvious that he had just received the surprise of his life.

“You’re...a terrible...healer,” she rasped. “Thank...you,” she finished and released a weak chuckle.

“Sif, you...”

Loki didn’t finish the sentence and Sif was incredibly proud of herself for rendering the Silver-tongue speechless. Her hand slid off his cheek, the fingertips caressing the smooth skin of it in the process, and Sif felt a strange delight at the sensation, regretting the interruption of the contact.

“I will fly us to the Healing Rooms with Mjölnir at once,” Thor declared.

“No,” Loki said, “teleportation is gentler and takes less time. I have been practicing. I can travel through such means within the same realm. One more person should not prove too difficult to move.”

“ _What?_ ” Thor boomed. “You can’t risk failing now, brother. This is not the time to learn new skills.”

“Shut up, Thor,” Loki growled, clasping Sif’s hands with his, and then, Sif knew no more.

**.**

**.**

**.**

_Now hush thee, hush thee, my father,_  
_Let no such words be said!_  
_The warrior comes not hither_  
_Is worthy me to wed._

(The Ballad of Brynhild)

 

When Sif awoke, much later, her body was stiff all over, but she was no longer in any pain. The healing magic had mended most of her great wound and, although she was still dazed, she decided quickly that she would ask her designated healer to leave the scar on her skin in memory of what had happened to her.

Sif pushed the light material of the white tunic off her shoulder and smiled. The scar was a reminder of her great accomplishment, for she received it in battle with the great valkyries themselves. It was also a warning, so she might handle a similar situation better in the future. And – she smiled at that, amused and strangely pleased, instead of disturbed – it would serve as a fond memory of Loki.

“It’s a good look, I must confess.”

She turned her head a little too quickly, her hardened neck popping, to see the visitor sitting in a simple chair by her bedside, open delight gracing his features.

  
“Thor,” she said with a soft smile, covering her exposed shoulder. “So, only you have come to visit me, then? I’m slightly disappointed,” she said in jest.

“I see you’ll live, my friend,” Thor replied, laughing. “In all seriousness, however, the Lady Eir banished the Warriors Three from the healing rooms, saying they made too much noise with their enquiries, but Loki stayed by your side until the morning. I’m afraid I was needed by my father.” He looked apologetic. “Huginn and Munnin returned with reports from the Realms and, as you know, I must be present whenever the blasted birds arrive, even at an inconvenient time. But I am learning to decipher their language. Otherwise, I would have stayed with you throughout the healing process.”

“Do not apologise. I was asleep before and I am glad that you are here now that I am awake,” Sif said, making sure she sounded cheerful, but she could not chase away the thought that Loki had been there all night, watching over her. Was it at Thor’s behest or of his own volition? It didn’t seem to matter, for her heart hastened its pace regardless of the truth, her mind puzzling her with the unexpected anticipation of seeing him again.

Did he hold my hand as I was in the grasp of my unconscious state?

“How long did I sleep?” she asked, concentrating on the blue hues in Thor’s eyes, willing her mind to spare her with the images of a certain green gaze that had begged her to persist and live.

“Despite the gravity of your injury, not even a full day. Are you well? I have been worried, and I was not alone in this.”

Sif cupped her healed shoulder with her palm, nodding. “A bit sore, but decidedly on the mend. I am not so easy to defeat. Still, I could use a cup of water.”

Thor chuckled, taking a silver cup from the small table by Sif’s bed and filling it with healing water. “And how glad I am of it!” he said, handing her the cup. “I will stay behind more comfortably with the knowledge that nigh nothing can break the Lady Sif. You have truly proven yourself in Valhalla.”

Sif’s brow arched, confusion evident in her eyes. She sent a sip of the water down her throat with a hard swallow. “How will you stay behind, Thor? I have always followed you.”

Thor took her free hand in his and squeezed it gently. “You want to become a valkyrie and the Lady Brynhildr is interested in you. Her interest in a shield-maiden is a rare honour. It means that a new valkyrie has been chosen, and you are she.”

Sif inhaled loudly and held the breath in her lungs.

“Sif? Are you not glad of the news?”

Sif exhaled sharply and raked her fingers through her hair, pulling through the twists and knots that had formed during her rest, her hands claiming a few hairs from her scalp in the process. For so long, she had been dreaming of this moment, picturing it so clearly, fantasising about every part of it. She had patiently waited and trained for an eternity for this goal, yet now that it had been achieved, her spirit faltered and did not leap with joy. Happiness lurked just underneath the surface, but suddenly, Sif was reluctant to poke it out and give into it. She was scared by the confusion and she did not comprehend its origin, but she wanted it to be gone and leave her with the pleasure of her new, bright future.

“I shall be a valkyrie,” she spoke blandly, uttering the words that she had practiced in her head countless times. On a few secret occasion, even in front of the small mirror in her bedchamber. “Are you angry with me, Thor,” she continued, saying what she thought should be spoken at this time, expected of her, “for having concealed my desire from you? For wanting to leave your side?”

Thor sighed, smiling gently. “I have suspected for quite a while, Sif. In the past, it seemed as if I was going to lose you, and in a sense, that is going to happen. I should have broached the subject much sooner, yet selfishness kept me from doing so. But I saw your face in Valhalla, the joy in your eyes, the pride and the excitement, and suddenly, the prospect of only seeing you once a year does not seem so terrible anymore. You are my dear friend and a great warrior, and I am proud of you, I truly am. You have my blessing, Sif, of course you have it.”

It hit Sif precipitously; the meaning behind her hesitation, the shadow cast over her dreams, and it angered her terribly, filling her with a rage that was as powerful as Thor’s own thunder. She flung the cup at the opposite wall with a force that left an indentation in the stone and a crack on the silver surface of the vessel. She screamed in righteous indignation and threw the soft cover off her body, jumping from the bed in search of her attire and weapons.

He always ruins everything.

“I will kill the wretch,” she half growled, turning around as frantically as a berserkr.

  
For centuries, she had been blind; she strove towards this blindness that had just healed itself. For centuries, she had not given her feelings a second thought because her goal was too important to her, too clear and superior to anything she had ever known, but now that it was finally within her grasp, the reality of the situation opened her eyes, forcing her to examine her mind and her heart.

“Ymir’s teeth, what are you doing, Sif?” Thor demanded, grabbing her by her arms with only a little determination, her injury obviously still fresh in his mind.

“I cannot be valkyrie,” she declared, the words shaking her, unveiling the depravity of her soul further. “By the Nornir, I cannot be a valkyrie,” she repeated, digging her fingers into Thor’s flesh, feeling the need to anchor herself, or she would explode. “At least, not yet.”

“Why ever not?”

“Because I am not worthy to become a sister of war. I am not worthy,” she insisted. “Let me go. I must get dressed. Where is my glaive? My dagger? Where have they put them?”

“Sif, calm yourself and tell me what is wrong,” Thor spoke with authority, his kingship showing through his voice, his eyes and everything that he was, and Sif found herself resenting her oldest friend, for he was so very worthy of his lot and she was not even close to her own.

Thor pushed her backwards, making her sit on the bed, settling himself by her side, and cupped her face with strong fingers, forcing her to look at him.

“Please, tell me,” he asked, his voice softer this time.

“I do not think that I can, for it shames me,” she replied, biting her lip, willing herself not to cry. She was not used to crying. Sif was used to seeing tears in the eyes of her enemies as she defeated them. On her own cheeks, they were a foreign entity that frightened her. The presence of such vulnerability and weakness gave her a sensation of standing on the precipice of an endless cliff, nothing below it but black fog and uncertainty.

“Are we not friends? We have always confided in each other,” Thor coaxed her. “We have seen each other in our best moments and at the lowest points of existence, and we’ve come through just fine. There must be trust between warriors. Trust between friends.”

“And people would claim that you are not good with words,” Sif said sadly, pushing Thor’s fingers off her face and looking down, feeling too fragile to meet his eyes. She was always so composed, so unafraid, but her behaviour of the last few minutes had marked her as a madwoman with no self-control. Sif was gravely disappointed with herself and she had never felt so defeated.

She was thankful for Thor’s intuition, though, for he seemed to understand that she needed to collect her thoughts and calm her spirit before she spoke again.

Finally, she said, resigned, “My heart is not empty of love.” She closed her eyes at the confession, cursing it. “A valkyrie’s heart must be pure. Invulnerable. Mine is not. I have broken the first rule even before joining their ranks.”

“Sif, you are allowed to love. Every valkyrie leaves behind friends, even family. That does not mean she is not worthy of the station.”

Sif met Thor’s eyes with vehemence. “A valkyrie must be able to free her heart of intimate love, Thor. She cannot leave behind a lover. She cannot keep them in her thoughts. She is free to cherish her friends and her family, for every woman begins her life with them and then, eventually, leaves her home behind to join her husband. But there is one kind of love that is not allowed in Valhalla, and it separates the valkyrie from other shield-maidens. It is considered to be a distraction, this kind of love. The valkyries learned this truth at the inception of their group when one of their early leaders fell due to her love for a man.”

Thor nodded his head, looking away, contemplating her words. “You are in love.”

Sif groaned, covering her face with her hands in shame. “I’m afraid so. I have been for a very long time, quietly, in secret. I have kept the emotion suppressed, for I have always known what I truly want – wanted – but now that I have it, I cannot help but wonder how it would feel like to...to taste this love, to know it. It frightens me, and it angers me, because I do not know anymore what it is that I truly desire. Everything has always been so clear and determined. I do not know how to cope with the opposite.”

Thor frowned. “I have never quite understood this rule, precisely because of your mother. She was married to your father, had a child with him – you. And yet, she became a valkyrie. Why can you not follow in the same path?”

Sif nodded in understanding, uncovering her face. “My mother was fond of my father, but she was never in love with him, Thor. She married him because she hoped to give life to a child, not born out of wedlock, but a legitimate heir, or heiress, that would continue the heritage of her family of warriors, as well as the heritage of her husband’s ancestors. It was her belief that a descendant of two great warriors would prove to be a superior creature.”

Sif sighed. “My mother was in love with the glory that came with fighting wars for great kings. She wanted her offspring to reflect that sentiment and perfect it, and so I was born. When she was certain that I would be a great warrior myself, she kissed me goodbye and left me in the care of my father, making him promise once more that he would groom my desire to become a valkyrie. She hoped I would join their ranks in time for us to fight by each other’s sides, mother and daughter of war. Alas, she died in battle before that could happen.”

“And your father?” Thor enquired. “How did he feel about your mother’s choice?”

Sif lifted one corner of her lips into a wry smile. “A valkyrie’s calling demands sacrifices. The valkyries believe that only sacrifice creates the purest breed of warrior. Her sacrifice was leaving me and breaking my father’s heart. He was a fool for falling in love with her despite her repeated warnings against it. Their marriage was an arrangement from the start. I remember my father’s initial sadness. I still see it in his eyes when he thinks my gaze is otherwise occupied. He did not attend a single annual celebration in the valkyries’ honour after mother left us. He preferred not to see her. Her absence hurt less than her presence that offered no hope.”

Sif stood up, crossing her arms over her chest and giving Thor a pointed look. “I chose a life of celibacy for myself because I always knew I would leave everything behind. I refuse to break hearts and I refuse to get my own in tatters for attaching myself to someone and then abandoning them. I’m in danger now, but if you could speak to Lady Brynhildr and ask her for a delay, I would be forever grateful to you. You may stress to her that I will soon be well and worthy of her army.”

Thor shook his head, standing up as well and looking at Sif with something she interpreted as pity, and she decided to resent it.

“Don’t you dare,” she warned him with an expression that threw angry daggers at him.

“You have chosen to misunderstand me before I have spoken so much as a syllable in reply to your narrative.”

“I despise pity, and I despise arrogance, you know it well.”

“Then be calm, my friend, for I intend to offer neither. I would only like to say two things. Firstly, thank you for sharing your parents’ story with me. You have never spoken of it before, and I am grateful for and humbled by your trust.”

Sif frowned at Thor in suspicion, but she did not interrupt his speech. When was the last time that Thor experienced humility?

“Secondly, I wish to pose a question to you: whose desire is it, truly, that the Lady Sif become a valkyrie? Entirely her own, or her mother’s?”

“What?” Sif snarled, but Thor lifted his hand to stem a new flow of her rage.

“It is an honest question and it requires no anger on your part to answer it if you are certain of your choice.”

Thor smiled and removed a wayward tress of hair from her cheek with gentle fingers.

“Sif, you are, and always will be, one of the greatest warriors I have known,” Thor continued, “regardless of the army for which you choose to fight, be it Lady Brynhildr’s valkyries or my battalion. Your name will be hailed by generations to come. You were born to be a warrior and you show it every day. Only remember that, while the existence of each member of our race is meant to be a long thread, we all have only one life to spare until the thread is cut.”

Sif scoffed, choosing offence as her tool of defence because Thor was not helping her at all; he was pushing her over the edge of the precipice, right into the bottomless unknown.

“Does this pretty, philosophical speech come from the same man who turns the weather foul every time he believes himself to be the slightest bit offended?” She smirked. “Only last week, you had a temper tantrum because the council ignored most of your suggestions for a reconnaissance mission in Jötunheimr. You seemed almost mature until they rejected your proposal.”

She looked at Thor with near malicious glee, daring him to live up to his legendary temper. Thor merely chuckled, making Sif gnash her teeth together in frustration. Her friend had impressive control over himself when Sif least wanted it.

“I have never been good at accepting others’ advice and it has led me into trouble more often than not. My brother would gladly prove the truth of it with more vivid examples if he were here, I’m sure of it.” Thor shrugged his shoulders in a noncommittal manner. “It does not mean, however, that I am not capable of giving advice.”

“Then I am free to ignore any advice, just as you so often do,” Sif replied bitterly. “I will have you know, Thor Odinson, that I did not choose to live my mother’s dream, but my own. I would never allow anyone to influence my mind, not even my own mother. I am the only mistress of my life, do you understand me? My dilemma is only a matter of my pride that I shall quickly resolve. I promise you that.”

“It is not a promise I want or need, but I am sorry for the unintentional insult.” Thor patted her shoulder. “I’m afraid I must leave you now. I am to attend today’s council meeting. Hopefully, the council and my father will see reason this time. No storms, no matter the outcome, I promise you that,” he said, offering Sif a short laugh. “But Sif, do speak to the man that has your heart before you make the final decision and know that no matter what you decide, you will remain as you have always been, fierce, admired and worthy of respect.”

A snarl rumbled in Sif’s throat. “This entire conversation has been pointless. I thought you would steer me in a wise direction, the right direction – to accept my post in Valhalla. Instead, it seems you want me to take a lover and remain in your battalion. You are selfish,” she accused.

“I’m sorry to hear it, Sif,” Thor replied. “The truth is, you’ve divulged a great secret to me. You have always been sparse with talk of sentiments. The fact that you told me of your love for a man when before, you never so much as looked at another being in such a way, led me to surmise that you are experiencing true doubts about your calling as a valkyrie and that, perhaps, you needed someone to tell you that it is not wrong to find happiness elsewhere. Either way you choose, you will choose well. You have a few millennia to spare, and perhaps you can still have both. When you know what you want, I will support you, as I always have done. Do not doubt me.”

“I –” Sif shut her mouth, suddenly at a loss for words.

Perhaps, you needed someone to tell you that it is not wrong to find happiness elsewhere.

You have a few millennia to spare, and perhaps you can still have both.

Sif shook her head to chase away the confusion that came with the sense of comfort and relief, which Thor’s words inspired inside her.

“I’m sorry for losing my temper,” she spoke tersely and sat down on the bed. “The decision is mine to make, but thank you, for listening and...for the advice.”

“Oh, saying this must have hurt. Do not try it again, I beg you, this pose of submission does not suit you,” Thor teased, chuckling.

“Go to the council meeting, my liege, before I find my glaive and use it on your impertinent behind,” Sif teased back, offering a small smile.

“Be well, my friend. I will see you later.”

Thor left and Sif threw her body against the mattress, contemplating the arched ceiling above her. She huffed a fierce sigh and closed her eyes. Never would she have believed that a man would stand in the way of her and Valhalla, but it was a man that was preventing her to running to the mistress of the valkyries that instant and pledging her allegiance to them straightaway. Now that she was faced with the possibility of leaving Asgard for a higher cause, she was not quite ready to entirely quit the frustrating wretch that held her heart in his hands and might not even appreciate it, let alone return the sentiment.

_Perhaps you can still have both._

“Oh, Thor, you sweet fool,” Sif whined, pressing the hills of her palms against her eyelids.

But she could, couldn’t she? There was an idea that began to appeal to her; of a love affair conducted under her own terms entirely, passionate, but brief. If Loki did not feel the same way for her, nothing would have to change and she would leave, anyway. But if he did, then what harm could it be to enjoy herself a little before going on the sacred quest for the rest of her existence? As long as she loved in silence, Sif believed that the feeling would persist because of the made-up ideal she had constructed around it in her head. Yet, if she changed the fantasy to reality, sobriety would soon follow and she would be purged of the temptation for good. At the end of the amorous escapade, she would leave for Valhalla. It was so simple: either way she chose, she would end her existence as a valkyrie. Thor had actually given her a good piece of advice, but he did not need to know that.

Sif smiled to herself and went in search of a healer to dismiss her from the healing rooms. She needed to have words with Loki, the sooner the better. How hard could it be to ask a man to become her lover?

How hard could it be to ask Loki?

Perhaps, a few more hours of rest were an acceptable way of postponing the whole matter.

 

**.**

**.**

**.**

_A-smiling all in secret,_  
_She sat the lowe within:_  
_‘The warrior bold that rides the flame_  
_For aye my love shall win! ’_

(The Ballad of Brynhild)

 

Sif had fought in many battles, had encountered many a grisly and terrifying foe, suffered from painful stab wounds, staggering blows and near-death experiences, one of them still a recent memory. Yet the hardest thing she had ever decided to do was facing Loki with her desires and asking him to be her lover.

The dusty, yet sweet, ancient smell of the vast palace library beckoned her forth, but her steps tended to linger often and prolong her journey. She felt foolish, garbed in a simple, flowing gown of a dark yellow hue, her thin waist embellished with a thick, silver belt. It was one of the two gowns that she owned, donning them on only the most special of occasions. She felt bare without her armour; she felt silly for adorning her hair with two thin braids pulling her front tresses from her face and intertwining them with silver threads at the back of her head. She did not mind feeling beautiful; she always made sure that everyone who fought her understood that their opponent was a fierce shield-maiden, as much a woman as she was a warrior.

Sif did enjoy the occasional praises of her woman’s beauty, but this time, it was different. She had made a conscious effort to look desirable, going so far as to scent her skin with rose water. Oh, Ymir’s teeth, she felt desperate and it insulted every portion of her pride. She was on the verge of turning around and forgetting her decision entirely, but that angered her in equal measure. It was her decision; it was her desire. Why should it shame her? She had the power to claim what her heart and body wanted, and if she shunned the possibility, then she could claim to be the Lady Sif no longer.

  
It was not in her nature to even consider retreat once her mind was made up. As much as her feelings for Loki were a source of frustration and an utter nuisance before, now conquering Loki had become a matter of pride and principle.

Sif was not as much a stranger to the palace library as one might assume on account of her life’s occupation, but now, every step that she took through the many rooms, varying in size and subject matter, seemed foreign and altogether new to her heightened, shuddering senses. She felt both nervous and bold, but she kept on walking, chin held high and proud, swaying her hips a little out of curiosity just to experience the coquettish gesture once. She soon abandoned the flirtatious movements, deciding they were simply too insipid and not worthy of herself as a warrior, but her goal remained the same, and suddenly, too soon, or finally – she did not know anymore – she found herself in one of the private reading rooms facing the thick and intricate maze that was used as one of the challenges during the yearly tournament.

The day had waned into dusk during Sif’s short journey and the light coming through one tall window was nearly gone, but the small space, furnished with several pieces of furniture on which one could read or simply relax – a chaise lounge in one corner, a settee in the other, and a daybed in front of the window – and no shelves, was illuminated by two glowing magelights hovering just under the carved ceiling, casting clear, greenish light upon the room. They must have been created by Loki, who was lounging upon the daybed, supporting his frame on one bent elbow, facing the window and reading a small book.

Sif swallowed and exhaled through her mouth, as quietly as possible, but still aiming to be heard by Loki’s sensitive ears. His body went rigid immediately and he turned his head sharply, not looking at her yet, but just as suddenly, his spine relaxed visibly and he sat up, facing Sif at last. Her appearance confused him a little, but he masked it well. Sif only saw it because she expected to find it in his eyes. Gowns were a far cry from her usual attire, as were embellishments in her hair. Or the perfume on her skin. Just like that, Sif’s nerves calmed, for she began to feel like an exotic creature, someone that could be easily admired and desired. Had she not proven herself to be the Goddess of War? Deadly and beautiful.

She smiled and sat down next to Loki. “I am well, thank you for asking,” she spoke teasingly.

Loki chuckled. “I knew you would be well. I did not doubt it for a single second. Let it be made official, blessed by the All-Father himself – the Lady Sif is unbreakable.”

Sif returned the chuckle. “I would not be so bold as to say that I am unbreakable, but I am very hard to kill.” She looked him in the eyes, calm and with purpose, and Loki looked back, obviously thinking very hard about the nature and intent of her presence in the reading room.

“Thank you, Loki,” she said. “For saving my life and for keeping vigil by my sickbed. I appreciate it and will never forget it.”

“You are welcome. It was my pleasure,” he replied with a smile. “Honestly, you did most of the work surviving the beast’s attempt at wounding the Goddess of War. It is how the call you now, just as you wanted it.”

To Sif, it seemed that Loki was determined not to make a fuss about it, remaining stoic and collected. She knew that he was not used to being thanked, for anything, therefore he was not used to accepting someone’s thanks with anything but playful dismissal. But she had not come here to examine the many intricacies that were the making of Loki. She had come to enjoy him.

The possibility of his rejection flamed hot in her mind and she had to suppress the rage that the thought attempted to draw to the surface. If he knew how much she was giving up for this... But she would not tell him this. No, she wanted him to simply desire her in return, without thinking too hard about the matter. She herself had pondered too much on it and it had done her no good. Allowing Loki to think could be disastrous. How could she word the proposition to achieve positive consequences? How could she force Loki not to think?

Sif knew she had to forget about the speech she had created in her head. She had never been one for words, anyway, and her talking about her wish to take him as a lover might only embarrass her. She was a warrior, born and bred, and action was her greatest talent. One could say so much by omitting words entirely.

“Sif?” he asked, observing her with puzzled, yet playful interest. “Your expression is most... I _would_ use the word strange,” he said with a purr in his voice, “but then you might take it – ”

Sif silenced him by covering his mouth with the palm of her hand, delighting in the warm tingle that his still-moving lips caused against her skin before they stopped entirely. Loki arched one thin, elegant eyebrow, intrigued by the yet-unknown challenge that Sif presented.

“Stop talking,” she said, _commanded_ , “and don’t speak until all you can manage is my name said in passionate worship.”

Sif removed her hand from Loki’s mouth swiftly and her lips replaced it, moulding against his with hard fervour. Loki parted his lips in surprise, gasping against her mouth, and although she was entirely inexperienced, Sif was not ashamed and longed to improve with practice. She might still be awkward in her explorations of Loki’s mouth, but she was eager to show her desire for him, taking advantage of his surprise by tracing his lower lip with the tip of her tongue before slipping it against his, marvelling at how wonderful and overwhelming the wet, hot sensation was.

The most wonderful thing, however, was that Loki did not reject her. Recovering from his surprise, he dropped his book to the floor and pressed his palms against her back, the fingers of his left hand tracing the knobs of her spine, while his other hand pushed her against his chest, his mouth devouring hers in a deep kiss that raised the hairs all over her skin. When the need for air became too hard to ignore, Sif broke the kiss, only to bestow her attention upon Loki’s sharp cheekbones, the curve of his nose, the edges of his jaw, her kisses light, for she was enjoying herself as she explored, slowly, taking her time to learn every part of her lover.

Loki, her lover. The thought made her smile as she journeyed lower, her mouth admiring the elegant column of his neck, her teeth leaving their gentle mark. When she reached the spot where Loki’s neck met his shoulder and she elicited a moan from his throat, Sif felt like the greatest victor that had ever lived.

“ _You_ ,” he breathed, taking her face between her hands and having her look into his eyes, glazed over by pleasure that nearly eradicated the tantalising green of his irises, “Sif, you – ”

“No talking,” she admonished him and sought his lips again with hunger and longing. She almost snarled when he tore himself away, the fear of his rejection returning.

“Will my mistress allow me one coherent sentence before she ruins me completely?” he spoke and Sif delighted in the knowledge that he sounded breathless. “A ruination that is entirely welcome, I should add.”

“Speak, then,” Sif replied, her fingers boldly seeking the laces of the simple green tunic that he was wearing, her eyes never leaving his.

“Do you mean it this time, Sif, or will you follow me with a dagger tomorrow, seeking to punish me for daring to touch you? If the latter applies, I’d rather stop playing this delightful game immediately.”

  
Sif’s fingers stopped, resting on the exposed skin of his collarbones. She felt scolded and her pride wanted her to act on the slight, but her temper might ruin everything, this much she understood. It was hard for Sif to swallow Loki’s words, especially because he had every right to speak them. She had made a great mistake in the past, insulting him because she was afraid of her own feelings then. She was not afraid anymore and he needed to be made aware of it.

“I wanted you then, Loki, and I want you now. This time, it is true. I _know_ what I am doing and I will never regret it.”

Loki’s eyes widened ever so slightly, her honesty leaving him dumbfounded.

“Never is a strong word for such an occasion,” he teased, smiling so that his tongue poked through his teeth, and she loved that smile so much.

“Don’t mock me, Loki,” she said, lacing the tone of her words with warning, guarding her feelings automatically.

Suddenly, he became serious. “If we do this, I don’t want you to discard it as a dalliance for a night.”

“I expect the same of _you_ ,” Sif countered, pulling the green tunic over Loki’s head in one swift move.

“No, you don’t mean this. You and I know that you are leaving soon to join the valkyries.” He smiled weakly. “It is a great honour that you deserve and you should go, but before you do, I cannot give you... whatever this is.” He smirked. “Call it out as sentiment and I will deny it to all but you, yet you have always been special to me, Sif, I will admit this much. You know this, or you wouldn’t have come to me.”

Sif claimed a quick kiss from Loki, sighing against his lips. Had that been Loki’s version of telling her that he had affection for her? It spread a warm, pleasant tightness through her stomach.

“I shall remain in Thor’s battalion and when he is king, I will be a warrior of the King’s Army. That, too, is a great honour. It might as well be the greatest honour there is to be the general of a king that is a ruler of the Universe and as such, above all other kings and queens.”

Sif was surprised by how much she meant every single word she had spoken. The foundations of her plan to join the valkyries after ending her affair with Loki were crumbling fast under the weight of her desire for him and now that she had had but a taste of him, she could not imagine quitting him at all. It should shame her, but she felt the opposite.

“No, no, no,” Loki hurried to reply, “do not do this on my behalf. I will _not_ accept this burden!”

“I am doing this for _myself_ , Loki,” she countered angrily, delivering a strong punch against his naked shoulder, making him flinch. “Do not dare to insult me by suggesting any other alternative, or I may as well put a dagger through your shoulder right now.” She wove her fingers through the hair at his nape and pulled hard, eliciting a gasp from his mouth. “I have always been my own and that will never change. I am not offering you a burden. I am offering you _myself_ to take as your lover and asking that you give yourself to me _in equal measure_ , but you talk so much, I am starting to believe that – ”

This time, it was Loki’s lips that silenced Sif and she did not mind it. There was much to be said between them, but it could easily wait now that she had confirmation of Loki’s desire for her. Finally, she could slide her fingers over his bare ribs, feeling them expand with the passion that she created inside him.

“I accept,” he spoke between their kisses, half snarling. “I will be yours if you are mine. No one else, no one, or I will hurt them and make you watch.”

“I mean to give you no reasons for jealousy,” Sif replied with a shudder as Loki’s deft fingers began to work at the laces at the back of her gown, “and it goes without saying that I will _kill you_ if you ever give me a reason to be jealo – ”

He made her choke on the last word with a wicked slide of his tongue along the front of her neck, his palms cupping her bared breasts, thumbs playing with her nipples, and Sif pounced, pushing him on his back and straddling him.

“You will do this again, Loki,” she demanded and pressed a kiss against his naked chest, “and again, and again, and again, but first,” she promised darkly, “I want to see for myself how it looks when the Silver-tongue is rendered speechless.”

Loki grinned, delighted by the promised challenge, and very soon, Sif wiped the grin off his face.

**.**

**.**

**.**

_‘Remember me,_  
_I remember you._  
_Love me,_  
_I love you’._

(a Runic inscription from Bergen, 12th century)

 

Sif awoke with a moan, her body wrapped in a pleasant ache, some limbs and patches of skin more sore than others, but all of it felt amazing. She remembered last night’s vigorous activities taking place in her bed, one of the many nights of the last year she had shared in secret with her lover, and grinned to herself.

She opened her eyes slowly, finding herself sprawled, chest down, on the back of her lover.

“Loki,” she whispered softly, her lips moving against the nape of his neck. “Wake up,” she murmured, kissing one exposed earlobe. “We march to Nornheim today, we must get ready.”

Loki acknowledged her words with a sleepy grunt, turning over and burying his face in her hair, intent on prolonging his sleep further.

“I must have truly worn you out last night, for you are always up before dawn,” she said, very pleased with herself, even more so because he had done the same to her, leaving her utterly satisfied.

Loki chuckled, making the effort of opening one eye. “Darling, you were, as always, perfectly insatiable and magnificent.”

Despite the sleep-induced huskiness and the teasing undertone of his voice, Sif knew Loki’s words to be true and she welcomed them gladly by kissing him on the lips ever so softly, poking his nose with hers.

“Now, dearest lambkin,” she continued, trying out a new term of endearment, for she still hadn’t found one that rang true to her ears, “we must be up. Come!” she exclaimed, slapping his behind playfully.

Loki laughed and sat up. “Really, Sif? Lambkin? _Lambkin_?”

Sif threw his tunic at his head and huffed, reaching for her undergarments. “You know I am not good with such words, so don’t even start it, Loki.”

Would dearest be enough? Sweetness, perhaps? That sounded nice, but not quite what she wanted. Curiously, lambkin had a delightful ring to it, but obviously, it was not a good choice. How childish of her to even consider it. The word darling slipped so easily from his tongue and she loved it when he said. Why couldn’t she come up with a nice word like that?

Sif was struggling with the laces of her under-shirt, more upset with herself than she would have liked it, when Loki wrapped his arms around her from behind, kissing her temple.

“Actually,” he whispered, “I quite like that. Lambkin. But only when we are alone. If _anyone_ should learn how you call me behind closed doors – ”

“They don’t even know about _us_ , Loki, so be calm...lambkin.” She chuckled and turned around, kissing him hard and thoroughly.

“May the Nornir have mercy upon me,” Loki managed to say between their kisses. “Darling,” he purred.

“Lambkin,” Sif returned, making them both chuckle.

They separated in panic as someone banged loudly on the door of Sif’s bedchamber, startling them from their intimate moments.

“Sif!” came Thor’s voice. “Loki! Come, already, you are late. You have five minutes and no more.”

Sif’s face blanched and Loki’s jaw dropped.

Loki hissed a curse. “How, in Hela’s name, does he know?”

Sif waved her arms in frustration. “You always call him an oaf and I always tell you that he’s not! Apparently, your teasing has backfired.”

The banging came back. “ _Sif! Loki!_ ”

Sif pulled a long tunic over her head as Loki began to struggle into his breeches. Sif hurried to the door and opened it for a fraction, enough to show her face.

“Stop yelling,” she said when she saw Thor, trying not to blush. “I am almost ready. As for Loki, I cannot imagine why you would find him _here_ , of all places. Try his chambers.”

Thor grinned. “You are a terrible liar, Sif, no offence, my friend. Loki, on the other hand, is excellent at masking the truth, which is why father always includes him on diplomatic missions, but even _he_ gets really sloppy around you. And _I_ ,” he paused with relish, “am good at battle strategies, which involves observation and the ability to asses a situation. In short, I have noticed you two...hm, acting strange, is that how you would call it?”

“Stop flattering yourself, you’re not that good,” Loki spoke suddenly, opening the door wide and standing behind Sif. “After all, it’s taken you _a year_ to discover the truth. Oaf.”

Thor laughed. “You would like to believe it, wouldn’t you?” He clapped his hands together. “Five minutes, I mean it.” Thor laughed once more, appearing mighty pleased with himself, and walked away.

Loki sighed, closing the door behind them by leaning against it. “My brother can keep a secret, but he will tease us and torment us without shame and I might just have to turn him into something unnatural for it.”

Sif bit her lip, twirling her fingers. “Why _are_ we keeping us a secret, Loki?”

Loki’s eyes widened for a fraction, revealing his surprise, or better yet, shock. “You want people to _know_?”

Sif crossed her arms across her chest, walking towards the window on the other side of her room. “I might not mind it,” she said noncommittally. “Thor knows and it doesn’t feel terrible. I’m not ashamed of being with you.” She swallowed. “Are you?”

“Of course not!” he exclaimed, hurrying to her side. “If you will remember, it was you who demanded secrecy at the beginning and I complied to please you.”

  
Sif looked at him. “I wanted secrecy because a part of me believed we wouldn’t last past one full moon, I confess it. I was mad about you, and I still am, Loki, but I was ready for the end of our affair and to depart for Valhalla afterwards to join the valkyries.”

Loki averted his gaze. “Do you still believe it? I...I will not stand in your way, you know I won’t.”

Sif smiled. “I know. And that is why I love you and harbour those thoughts no longer. There are days when you frustrate me to no end, but you always let me be myself. And some days, your mind is not really present, lost somewhere in dark thoughts, but you always come back to me. I believe in us, Loki, and if you so wished it, I would make it known to others.”

Loki pulled her into a tight embrace, inhaling the scent of her hair, resting his chin on top of her head. Sif was trembling in his arms, realising this was the first time she confessed her love to Loki, never having said it to each other before.

“Of course I want it, Sif. And I, I... _I love you_.”

“Well, then,” she said, looking at him, “let us make ready for the battle before Thor returns.”

Loki grinned and a bright, green flash of seiðr had them dressed in full battle attire in an instant.

“This allows us two more minutes, doesn’t it?” Sif spoke suggestively.

Loki slid his fingers through her hair, licking her earlobe, smiling against her ear.

“It certainly does.”


End file.
